Drabbles from Omegle to 221B
by KaiahAurora
Summary: Short stories based on Omegle chats. They range from angst to smut to fluff, so be warned! There will also be a lot of slash, general Johnlock, and some kidlock here and there! Rated M because of sexy times!
1. Look at the Time

This is a bunch of short stories about Sherlock and John, based off awesome conversations I had on Omegle. Only half of this work is mine! I just made it pretty at the end. None of them are related to each other, and they don't have a specific timing in the series. A lot of them are obviously slash, and others are just friendly stuff. They are mostly based off of texts sent between our two boys.

The first one is a humor-based jumble of random thoughts. Non-slash.

* * *

**John, have you seen my riding crop? SH** John stared at the text in shock, feeling a flush of anger at the annoying detective. He took a deep breath, and punched in his reply. **No. JW** Not five seconds later another message popped up on his screen.** I need it. SH**

**Not my problem. JW**

**Yes, it is. Find it for me. SH**

**No. JW**

**Yes, John. Why not? SH**

John rolled his eyes in exasperation. Was his flatmate really that dense? **Look at the clock. Any clock. JW**

**It's 2 in the morning. So? SH**

**I am trying to sleep. JW**

**You don't need to sleep, John. You need to find my riding crop. I'll have to leave Barts soon, and when I come back all the corpses will be too old. SH**

**Sleeping. JW**

**No. SH**

**Yes. JW**

**You're not sleeping. You're texting me. SH**

John was seriously tempted to throw his phone out the window. **Sleep texting. Serious illness. JW**

**Really? I've never heard of it before. SH** The doctor shook his head in exasperation. **Oh, was that sarcasm? SH**

**Don't know. I'm asleep. JW**

**John, I need you to do this for me. SH**

**No. It's two in the morning, and I'm in bed. I am not your bloody dog. Find it on your own. JW**

**Fine! SH** John could just imagine the childish, pouting expression on Sherlock's face. He finally thought that he might be able to go back to sleep, until **John, do you have any cash? SH**

**I'm going to murder you one day. JW**

**I highly doubt that. Cash, John, do you have any? I need to pay the cabbie somehow. SH**

**Check my wallet. JW**

**I can't I'm in the cab. I'll need you to come out and pay him. SH**

**Absolutely not. JW**

**I'll be nice to you for a whole week. SH**

**I hate you. JW**

**No, you don't. Fine, I'll get your wallet. SH**

Not five minutes later, the front door slammed loudly shut. Heavy footsteps sounded on the stairs, and then a crash from the living room. John buries his head in his pillow, vowing that he would indeed kill his flatmate one day. He could hear Sherlock calling for him from downstairs, but instead he curled up in bed, and promptly fell asleep. Whatever damage the detective had done, it would just have to wait until morning. That was, until the fire alarm went off.


	2. Evil Sherlock and Angry Doctor

This next one is complete drivel, starting off the same way as the last and ending completely differently. It features a much more obedient doctor, and a more evil Sherlock.

* * *

**John, have you seen my riding crop? SH**

**Why would I have seen your riding crop? JW**

**Because we live together, obviously. SH**

**Look, when was the last time you used it? JW**

**Yesterday, at the morgue. I brought it back and put it on the counter. Has Mrs. Hudson been cleaning again? SH**

**Hmm... it did look cleaner in there last time I checked. Where are you, anyway? JW**

**At Bart's. I thought Molly might have taken it, somehow. Will you find it for me? SH**

**Sherlock, its almost two am. Can't you find it in the morning? JW**

**No, I need it now. A new body's just come in and I need to test bruising on the forearm of a victim who drowned. SH**

**I'm in bed Sherlock, I'm not going all the way over there. JW**

**John, this is the basis of a scientific discovery! I highly doubt that your sleep is more important. Anyways, you won't be working at surgery tomorrow; Lestrade will be coming in with a new case. Now, find my riding crop! SH**

Grumbling, John slipped out of bed and moved down the steps and into the main room; it took about fifteen minutes to find, and by the end of those fifteen minutes the army Doctor was in a rather poor mood. **I found it, you wan't me to go over there and drop it off? JW** Honestly, John was lucky he got the four hours, because knowing his flatmate there would be no way he would just be able to go home and back to sleep after he went all the way to Barts to drop off the lousy thing.

**Yes. Hurry up. SH**

Sherlock smiled as he sent off the last text. So far, John had no idea of the detective's experiment on sleep deprivation. He had some lovely activities planned for the rest of the night, and he would be sure to extend Lestrade's case for as long as possible.

John quickly got dressed and headed out, nailing a cab after a good ten minutes and got to Bart's after another fifteen. He was tired, and irritated, but he sucked it up like he always did and went into the hospital and down the hall to the room where Sherlock would no doubt be, and pushed open the door. "Alright, here's your damn writing crop." Setting it down on one of the tables John gave the man a weary glance.

"Good." Sherlock said, glancing at his flatmate out of the corner of his eye. "John, I need you to help me with something." A small smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. So far, everything was going according to plan.

A long, exhausted sigh escaped his lips as Sherlock mentioned needing help. Of course. John was foolish for thinking even for a second he'd get peace. "Yes. Right. What is it?" Moving to his friend's side the Doctor sighed openly and looked the man in the face.

Sherlock refused to look the doctor in the eye, a plan forming in his mind. "I have some poisons here I need you to identify." He motioned to his microscope, where a dozen slides lay in a disorganized pile.

And how was John supposed to do that? He was a doctor, not a chemist. "Sherlock, you know I can't." John was openly irritated now, because all he wanted to do was climb back into bed and sleep.

"Yes, you can," the detective huffed in annoyance. "You need to learn. There are a number of books on the shelf that will help you. Now, get to it."

He did not want to do that, not right now, he wasn't going to sit down and learn a whole segment of Chemistry in one night. "No, Sherlock, listen, can I just go home?"

"No!" Sherlock exclaimed, louder than he intended. "No, John, I need these to be identified now. If you can't do it then you'll have to help me some other way." He shuffled uncomfortably, his mind racing for something that the Doctor could do. Honestly, he had thought that John would be willing to help. 'Lack of sleep = Unhelpful John' Sherlock thought, and stored the data into his Mind Palace.

"Alright, some other way then." Rubbing his face the man shifted where he stood, he would help the best he could, but not in such an impossible task that Sherlock could pull off in just a second.

"I need you to look over the man who drowned," Sherlock said, finally looking John in the face, studying his expression carefully. "Tell me what you see."

John shook his head and glanced over at the man on the table. "Alright... Let me see..." Moving over to the table John carefully looked the man over. It was clear he drowned, but before it all, that was a whole different story. "Well... There's a stain here... Which could mean he was drinking before, wine? And the skin here... The bruising shows he might've gotten in a fight before he hit the water or..." He gave a helpless glance to the detective. "Listen Sherlock, why are you making me do this?" He usually was all for helping, but at this time of night? And with no reasoning?

"Very good, John," Sherlock said with a smile. "I'm making you do this because it's good for you. I also need to put the body back soon, and needed a second opinion."

Shuffling to the side, the detective began to peer into his microscope, completely ignoring the doctor. After standing there for a moment, John felt as if he was finished. "Well, if that's it..." Wait. "Weren't you going to use that?" He pointed to the writing crop, he swore, if that was just an excuse to get him over there...

"Oh," The detective's eyes widened slightly in panic. "Yes, well..." He swallowed. "It seems that I don't. The marks on the man's forearms were made by a blunt object, and so the riding crop would have been of no use to me for testing." Sherlock visibly relaxed as he found an acceptable explanation. He glanced at John, hoping that his flatmate would buy it.

John rolled his eyes at this, obviously rather irritated. "So you made me come all this way for nothing?" Making his way to the door the angry doctor announced "I'm going back."

"No!" Sherlock almost shouted. "I need you here, John. Remember the case I was telling you about? The one that Lestrade will bring to us tomorrow? It is centered around this man! I need your help." In his panic, the detective didn't notice a small notebook fall out of his pocket. He moved towards John, putting his hands on the shorter man's shoulders. He looked into his eyes with what he hoped was an innocent and pleading expression.

John stared at Sherlock for a good while before he finally gave in. "Fine, but if I fall asleep tomorrow on the case I'm blaming you. What do you need me to do?"

He wearily looked over the man once more as Sherlock instructed, blinking constantly to keep his eyes from closing permanently. He could find nothing that he hadn't already seen, and his mind kept wandering. A thought wriggled its way into the forefront of his brain. "Hang on, Sherlock. If the body relates to a case from Lestrade, then why would you have to put it back soon?"

John's suspicions were immediately confirmed by the slightly panicked look on the detective's face. He crossed his arms and waited for an explanation. When one was obviously not forthcoming, the doctor shook his head, keeping a firm hold on his anger. His gaze fell on a notebook on the ground, and he lunged for it. Sherlock's cry of shock was completely lost on John as he flipped to the latest page. "Study of Sleep Deprivation on Average Minds" read the title page.

"Sherlock," John growled low in his throat. "What is this?"

The detective, who had been slowly inching his way to the door, decided that discretion was the better part of valour. Seeing the infuriated expression on John's face, Sherlock gave up on his project, and ran for it. John, amazingly enough, found enough energy within himself to chase his flatmate down the halls of Bart's Hospital, and half way back to the apartments of 221B Baker street, which both men called 'home.' Despite many similar transgressions in the future on Sherlock's part, both the detective and the doctor would continue doing so for many years to come.


	3. Photographs of Me

Warning: Complete and utter fluff. Mostly from the detective's point of view, but still third person. Beware of Sherlock naïve-ness. I promise that the next one will start in a different way. If you have suggestions or comments, then please review!

Just in case you're confused: **texts** and _thoughts_

* * *

**John, have you seen my riding crop? SH** Sherlock had been searching the flat for almost a full ten minutes, about as long as he was able to stand searching for something. He waited agitatedly for the doctor to reply.

**I took it. Sorry for this, it's in my room, I'll return it when I come home. JW** The reply came pretty quickly, unusual for John when he was at the surgery. Sherlock also wondered why the doctor would take his crop in the first place, and why it would be in his room. Shrugging, he sent a text back. **No need. I'll just search the room. SH**

The reply came about three minutes and twelve seconds later, just as Sherlock triumphantly help up the riding crop.** No. I mean, it's in the nightstand. I left it there, and it's personal, you know... ****My**** nightstand. JW** Sherlock frowned. Oops. **Oh. SH **The reply was immediate.

**What, oh? Did you take it already? JW**

**No! SH**

**Seems like you did. JW **He really wasn't that stupid. Sherlock left the room, making sure that everything was exactly as John had left it, minus the riding crop.

**I didn't see anything of importance, don't worry. SH**

**What did you see, exactly? JW **Sherlock frowned. There really hadn't been anything. John's room was scant in possessions and military-neat. He hadn't had any trouble at all searching through the four locations in which the riding crop could be found. Sherlock tried to think of what John could have been hiding in the nightstand.

**Well, as I said, nothing of importance. A few photographs, that's all. SH**

**What photographs? JW **Curiosity rising within him, Sherlock went back to John's room. He knew exactly what each of the photographs were, but he hadn't thought they were important before. In fact, he was just about to delete them from his memory.

**Photographs of me. SH **Indeed, they were all of him. He didn't remember most of them being taken. Some were close-ups of his face, others were at crime scenes or even at the flat. But they all had two things in common: all of them had Sherlock, and none of them had John.

**Do I have to explain anything to you? JW **_Interesting choice of words,_ Sherlock thought, _leading one to believe that there is something to explain._

**Apparently so. SH **Perhaps he should explain a little more. **I see no reason why the photographs are important in any way. SH**

**Really? Then, never mind. They're not. JW** Well, if that wasn't guilt then Lestrade was Mozart.

**You don't seem very convinced, John. Are they important? SH**

**I keep them as a souvenir. JW **Sherlock raised an eyebrow. A souvenir? Another text appeared not moments later. **Just for nothing. JW **Sherlock's mouth twisted into a grin. Well, wasn't that something.

**That seems to be a strange reason to keep them, then. SH**

**Fine. I like those photos... JW **_Obviously. Why else would you keep them? Sentiment, always with the sentiment._

**But they're all of me. Why would you keep photographs specifically of me? SH **Because it was John, and Sherlock wanted to understand him, the detective tried to place himself in the other man's metaphorical shoes. He lived in the same flat as an utter git, who was also completely brilliant. He himself was a bit stupid, but enjoyed hearing the detective make deductions. He took photos of said detective and kept them in secret, in the nightstand of all places. Conclusion? **Oh. SH**

**What, oh? What are you thinking now? JW **Sherlock went back to the sitting room, plopping himself down on the sofa. John's reaction had confirmed his suspicions. _Well, isn't that interesting. And good. Very good._

**When are you getting home? SH**

**In five-ten minutes. What, oh? JW**

**You'll see. SH**

* * *

If you want me to continue this in the next chapter, let me know.


	4. Sherlock's Return

Okay, this one is actually a post-Reichenbach and really sad, so read with tissues and chocolate!

* * *

John sat quietly in his chair, staring at the bullet holes in the wall. This was a more or less daily event for him. Mrs. Hudson, bless her, hadn't insisted that they fix the wall, and so the brightly coloured smiley face was still there. Every time he looked at it, it was like a slap in the face, or a knife to the heart, but still John looked. Every day he forced himself to remember every detail of Sherlock, his partner, his flatmate, his friend. Sherlock would have called him an idiot for feeling so sentimental, but he couldn't help it. John loved Sherlock.

His phone buzzed, and John shook his head slightly. He couldn't let anyone know just how much Sherlock's death had affected him. The doctor took a moment to make sure he wasn't crying or something before checking his phone. The message on the screen was a pretty normal one for the past six months: **New case. Will you come? – Lestrade** The DI had been involving John on nearly all of his cases, and the doctor suspected that it was more for his own good than for the help he provided. He quickly sent the reply: **I'll be there soon. Text me the details – Watson**

Now, when Sherlock was- six months ago, everyone used their initials to sign off texts. That was just one of the things that changed in honor of Sherlock. The words "dull" "boring" and "idiot" were also carefully avoided in John's presence.

The crime scene was standard, a man found dead in his car, which was parked in a back alley. All of the officers had respectfully waited for John to arrive, allowing him the first look. Lestrade's orders, obviously. The cause of death was a shot to the head with a small caliber bullet, but the man had obviously been tortured, and then searched post-mortem.

"The victim's in his late thirties," John heard himself speak up. "Worked in a government position, and had an important document – no, USB – in his possession when he was murdered. He's wearing an expensive suit and he has a briefcase, but it wasn't forced open which means that the killer knew what he was looking for. He was tortured for information, but didn't say anything, so he was killed. The murderer then searched the body."

John took one last look, and made his call. "You're looking for a Caucasian male younger than thirty five, with blond hair, who was either a close friend of the victim, or closely related to him. They knew each other for a long time." John saw the officers looking at him skeptically. God, he missed Sherlock. "The handprints are of a young male, there's a hair on the body and some skin under his fingernails from where he fought back. His eyes are closed, a sign of remorse, and whoever it was knew about the USB."

The doctor walked away from the scene, having done all he was asked to do. "Obvious," he muttered under his breath. He stood at the corner of the street, watching as the officers did their stuff. John's mind began to wander, back to the many other times that he stood at a crime scene, with Sherlock Holmes by his side. He remembered just listening as the detective's voice started on a flow of deductions and explanations. That voice. John missed that voice. He could almost hear it now, insulting someone, stating that he was bored, calling John's name…

"John," said someone from behind him. Instead of turning around John panicked. 'Oh, God!' he thought. 'I've finally lost it.'

"John," the voice came again, achingly familiar, but ringing with uncertainty and need. "Turn around."

Slowly, not knowing what to expect, John obeyed. Standing before him was Sherlock, the one man that he had never hoped to see again, but had cried for every night. John took a step back, taking in the pale green eyes, mess of dark curls, and high cheekbones which made up the face of Sherlock Holmes. John stared at him for a moment. He honestly didn't know how to respond. He was a tangled mess of emotions. Shock, joy, sadness, love, and intense denial bolted through him in rapid succession. Eventually, he decided not to react. Sherlock was dead. He had just gone crazy.

"John," Sherlock said, his voice hoarse. "I'm real. I'm alive. God, I'm so sorry, John." His hand reached out, hovering in the air between them. John stared at it for a moment, before reaching out with his own. Their fingers brushed. Real, living hands. John gasped and looked up at Sherlock.

"Sher-" his voice stopped of its own accord. The detective stepped towards him, about to say something, but was stopped by John's fist connecting sharply with his face. "You bastard!" he practically screamed. "You utter, complete, selfish asshole and bastard!"

"John-" Sherlock started, but John would have none of it. He pushed Sherlock forwards, around the corner, thankful that they were out of earshot of the police.

"Six months, Sherlock!" he yelled. "Six months of hell! You were dead. I watched you die! Oh, God-" He stopped himself, his eyes filling with tears. "Sherlock…" He stepped forward and pressed his lips into Sherlock's, just feeling him, reassuring himself that they were both alive. Finally, for the first time in six months, they were both alive again.

John was crying, he had no doubt about it, but he didn't care. He broke the kiss quickly, and buried his face in Sherlock's shoulder. He didn't want to see the other man's reaction. He couldn't deal with it right now. He just needed to let it all out, that emotion that had been pent up inside him even before Sherlock's death.

Sherlock stared at John, completely in shock. John was a wreck. John had kissed him. John was crying- oh, God, John was crying. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John, holding him tightly as he sobbed. A few tears slipped down Sherlock's own cheeks, but he didn't make a sound. This was so much harder than he had ever thought. What had he done? But John had kissed him. Sherlock smiled wetly. That had been better than he had ever dreamed. All of these conflicting emotions were wreaking havoc inside of him, and meanwhile John was clinging to him like his life depended on it. For all Sherlock knew, maybe it did.

"I'm here, John," Sherlock whispered, his voice choked and unsteady. "I'm here."

"I love you," John gasped, burying his head in Sherlock's chest. Sherlock stared at John, opening his mouth to say something, but then he closed it again. He separated himself from John slightly, causing the doctor to look up at him, his expression so lost it made his heart break.

"I love you, too," he whispered, and closed the distance between them. Their lips met in a proper kiss, and for the first time in a long, long time, everything was perfect.

* * *

Wow, that was really... wow. Please leave a review if you hated it or loved it! I'm expanding this to include suggestions from people, so if you want me to write something, let me know! Also, if you like my writing style, check out a series I'm writing called Time Dance under the name Kaiah Aurora. Thank you all and happy reading! (that's my thing now, by the way)


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